I’ve been living in the UK for years now, so I had no idea that an insidious drug cult has taken over America. My first clue was when the plane landed in Atlanta. A group of young women screamed as they entered the terminal. No, really. Screamed. “PUMPKIN SPICE LATTES!” When my next flight landed in DC, several passengers menaced a Dunkin’ Donuts employee who was attempting to close down for the night. “Pumpkin spice donuts!” they demanded.
It’s everywhere. Hordes of
suburban white female Americans are apparently roaming the streets, shuffling along and chanting “PUMPKIN SPICEEEEEE”. I tried to escape into my sacred, secure place, the one establishment that makes every ex-pat American groan with homesickness. But the clerk in Trader Joes greeted me brightly with the information that “We carry over 47 pumpkin spice products!”
I staggered to my friend Janine’s house. I’ve known her for four decades, and I knew I could count on her to offer me a comfy chair, a cup of coffee, and her latest baking treat. Here she comes now with a plate of her home-baked petit fours. I’ll just have a taste and…
OMG! PUMPKIN SPICEEEEEE!!!!
Hey, it’s actually pretty good. Only now I have an uncontrollable urge to change into yoga pants, pin stuff to Pinterest, and buy all 47 things from Trader Joes…
This year, when I arrived in the States I thought I was prepared for America’s annual Pumpkin Spice orgasm.
I could pass the pumpkin spice product displays without blinking.
I could ignore the blatant infiltration by Peeps, those ironic little pervs who aren’t content with subverting their assigned holiday.
I could…OMG! How my eyes ever be clean again?